


River

by taylocrow



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff, F/M, Mafia AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-10-02 06:44:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10211870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taylocrow/pseuds/taylocrow
Summary: Oh, I wanna come near and give you every part of me, but there's blood on my hands, and my lips aren’t clean.-----------Sansa always catches him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Based off of River my Leon Bridges.

 

It's a dreamless sleep, but at least she's asleep, so Sansa wills herself to stay unconscious. It's better that way. Maybe if she shuts her eyes tight enough everything will work out fine. The longer she stays asleep, the less she is tossing and turning into her inner turmoil. Where is he? Is he okay? Is he coming home?

His side of the bed is glaringly empty and cold as she drifts off, that she vividly remembers behind her closed eyelids. But alas, even in sleep, she still misses him. Aches for him.

He once asked her if she still loved him, back when everything first reared its ugly head, when she really saw him, and she said if she could stop she would. Sansa meant it. If there was anyway on Earth she could stop being completely and totally Jon Targaryen’s, she would.

It's something that keeps Jon up at night, the type of life he thinks she deserves. One with an honest, hard working man who proudly wears the ties and dress shirts she'd iron for him. A man who would come home at 6:00 to help her cook up a hot meal and sit around a full kitchen table with their happy kids. They'd talk all about their days filled with normalcy, safety, and not guns or the FBI. Then, he'd help her put their little ones to bed with a kiss and a story. They'd have sex twice a week and kiss each other sweetly before dozing off at 11:00 each night. Instead he comes home in a sheen of sweat, blood, and dirt caked beneath his fingernails. Jon has no children to kiss, no hot meals in the wee hours of the morning, and more than likely will never be able to give her any of those things.

As Sansa rolls over, her eyes flutter open, an uneasiness rising her from her light sleep. She blinks as she checks the clock: 3:43 AM.

“Sansa.”As if on cue, Jon’s voice croaks from behind her. She shoots up in a rush of panic and glee, Sansa never got tired of feeling his exhausted frame finally collapsing to rest beside her in their bed.

Jon's leaning against the door frame as if it's the only thing in the world keeping him up. Sansa tries not to flinch as she looks him over. His unruly curls are tied low in a bun, crimson red splashed all over his white shirt, jeans, and boots. Sansa can smell the death on him and rips the covers off herself to hop from the bed to cross their bedroom. Jon's shaking, his shoulders slumped, eyes glassy with sleep and horror.

In these hours of the night Jon is the sweet boy from geography class she met when she was 16. The boy with the eyes filled with wonder, a head full of dreams, and a pocket full of literary quotes to charm her with. When Jon comes home like this it's hard not to think of the first time it happened.

“Sansa.” His voice wobbles once more, his helpless arms reaching out as he takes a step towards her to collapse in her grip. Sansa always catches him.

His muscled and toned body that always stands so tall and proud, is currently crumpled and frail in her arms. Sansa squeezes his frame as she finds her footing and shushes him while his scratchy beard nuzzles into her neck. “Hi baby.” She whispers into his ear and feels him shudder.

Jon clutches to her then, his hands rough with work and callous thread through her knotted, sleepy hair. She knows she has to move quickly or they'll collapse and sleep on their floor. Not that it hasn't happened before or that it'd make her mad, she just wants her husband asleep with her in their bed. So when she wakes up she can snuggle closer and for a brief moment pretend this is all normal. He’ll cling to her and cover her whole body is kisses before having to face another day. Their bed was a safe place, a loving place, waking up after falling asleep on the floor would only be a rude reminder of how fucked up they really were.

“Come on,” Sansa fights to make sure her voice is level, “Let’s go clean you up.” Jon pauses and tugs her hair harder.

It's up to her to get them there, and she does so with little to no trouble. Jon stumbles after her steps as the weight of everything threatens to take him down. Sansa stopped wondering how he does it, how he can do this and keep going like nothing ever happened. But he does and so does she because there is no other choice.

When his father died all those years ago, Sansa had never realized or understood what it would mean for Jon. What it would mean for her and their well being and life. When Jon had to take over, she was there to support. Secretly she wished and hoped that it was temporary, Jon was just covering before someone else would step in and take over. But it doesn't work like that, she knows that now, the world is too cruel to grant such an easy way out.

So, Sansa had to drop out of college after the second kidnapping and now has three panic rooms built into her seaside home. They're far off the map and from wandering eyes, but Sansa can still remember what it feels to have a cold blade clutched against the column of her throat. Jon does too. He never forgets and will never forgive himself or the men who did that to her. They're all six feet under and somehow they still linger. It does nothing to dull the nightmares.

The hot water sputters and chokes from their shower heads as Jon’s almost childlike face sits on the toilet peering up at her. Dirt coats his cheeks and blood is crusting in the black of his beard. Sansa prays it isn't his. Slowly she tugs his shirt up and off of him as they begin their intimate, practiced routine. They shed each other's clothes and Jon pretends not to be bothered as she subtly checks for damages. Tonight it's minimal, only some purpled bruises beginning to pool on his back and a shallow cut on his right forearm. He must've worn his bulletproof vest tonight but Sansa shoves that horrifying fact aside to gather him up for the shower.

It's large, just like everything else in their home, oversized and beautifully crafted. She and Jon customized the entire place, all 6,000 square feet of it. If they had to move miles from civilization he had promised he'd let her pick everything out. Anything for you, he'd tried to disguise the need to flee for safety as a romantic gesture.

The double headed shower rained down, steam filling the marbled room, and Jon limply followed her inside.

Jon stood motionless inches from the water with eyes wide and red rimmed, “He was 16 Sansa. Sixteen.”

“Shh, it's alright.” Sansa gently moves him beneath the water to disguise the tears beginning to course down his cheeks. In moments like these the only comfort Sansa can find is that it's not him. She didn't lose her husband tonight, and for now that's enough. You have to find something rational to cling to when you hear something as irrational as what her husband just admitted.

The shampoo bottle is slippery in her shaky hands but she does her best to hide her uneasiness and squirts some product into her palm. Jon remains shivering underneath the hot water, and silently leans so that her hands can lather up his filthy hair. He's so close to her face and she feels him watching her, trying to assess her, and failing at disguising his raw fear. She knows he's terrified of the things he's done and what he's capable of doing. Jon's killed without batting a lash. He leads his men without a shadow of a doubt, no one questions Jon Targaryen’s commands, and no one would ever know this broken man that stands before her. They only know the man of steel who kills and plots and plans.

Brownish red residue circles the drain and Sansa gently nudges his head back to rinse the suds. Jon whimpers and chokes on his cries but does as he's been urged to. At least there's no doctor visit tonight, no stitches or bullets. His strong arms pull her in suddenly, clutching to her as the sobs wrack his broad shoulders. Sansa shoves her face into his wet chest and screws her eyes shut as tightly as she can and wishes more than anything that she could will his pain away.

“I love you,” Sansa murmurs into his wet chest but that only makes him cry harder. “You're okay. I'm okay.”

Every night that he makes these runs, he's terrified to come home. He once admitted to her in the darkness of their room and safety of their bed that sometimes he's tempted to make one of his men go to their room before him. He can't stomach the thought of walking into an empty room with a ransom note. Or one with her corpse in it. It's the reality of her husbands job, but it's been her life for so long Sansa drowns out those fears with the anxiety of her husband’s whereabouts and safety. Their home is equipped with the best of the best security, highest quality cameras, and iron wrought gates. It's a fortress by the sea; and yet Jon knows they'll never be completely safe.

“Do you forgive me?” His voice is strained but the sobs are subdued. Sansa immediately shakes her head to grant her husband absolution. “Of course. Always.” She peers up through the shower and sees that boy who gave her handpicked flowers before the spring dance in 11th grade.

Jon’s face molds to sternness, ready to shut out the guilt and fear, the mask he wears throughout his work. “Where did you go?” She doesn't really want to know and he knows that. “South.” He answers anyway. She knows what that means.

Jon has killed the Baratheon boy who took over for Joffrey. A boy not ready for the work his family cursed him with just as Jon’s cursed him. Tommen was good and he was kind, but he was weak and hardheaded. The combination was deadly, and her husband saw to it that he met his fate. Nausea swept her up like a wave, wreaking havoc on her insides, and she clung close to her husband again in hopes he didn't see her face before she’d had the change to hide it.

Jon placed a hand on her head, “You are my everything.”

“I know that.” Sansa swallows her own tears. Now is not the time.

“I will always keep you safe.” Jon’s voice is low and hard.

She believes him. She trusts him. She loves him.

“I will always be here.” Sansa assures him, because above all that is his real greatest fear. If she were to be killed he would have purposeful revenge. Maybe it'd even make him a better mafia leader because he'd lose his only weakness. No, what Jon was more scared of than a dead wife, was an ex one.

Jon lived in perpetual fear of her leaving him. Of having enough of the violence and the blood and the guns and throwing in the towel. It was this cycle of wanting the best for her and wanting her despite the fact that he was not what was best for her. It was selfish and it wasn't right, but it was what it was. Sometimes in the darkest nights, Sansa wishes she could leave and imagines a life in the city surrounded by normal friends and a simple job, but that's not a real choice. It never could be. She'd never willingly leave his side.

She was his river, his salvation, here to wash away the sins and forgive him for every wrong doing. While the world saw Jon Targaryen: head boss and killer, Sansa saw Jon Targaryen forcing his sleepy eyes open just to recite poetry to her when she can't sleep.

Jon slowly inches his hand up to grab her chin and look into her eyes, pulls her in, and kisses her softly. So tentative and gentle, pure and sweet. It's over now. The hard part, the heart wrenching brokenness dulled and buried.

She was his river and now his slate’s been wiped as clean as his freshly scrubbed skin.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked it! Gimme some love and say hey over on tumblr: tayl0rcrow


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